In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little while Before I die for ever.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts

When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, `Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.' But I was one-and-twenty No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, `The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.' And I am two-and-twenty And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.

Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.